A Royal Navy vessel has confiscated £240 million worth of cocaine from a boat off the coast of Columbia.
“We’re absolutely delighted about the operation,” said the skipper of the Iron Duke.
Apparently they caught the drug smugglers off-guard and pounced on them before they could brush the dust from their moustaches. I hope they showed no mercy to those wretched villains. Walking the plank would have been too good for them.
My advice to Captain Stacey is to handle the captured booty with care. Don’t let the crew snort it all at once, but ration it like grog in the days of Lord Nelson. Double the quota on special occasions like the Queen’s Official Birthday, or the date that Lady Hamilton was requisitioned for Royal Navy service.
We gorillas never take drugs, of course. If I want to get high I climb a tree. But we make no judgements about those who do, and will act as facilitators for humans who dope themselves up in a responsible manner.
My ancestor Bo’sun Bananas volunteered to serve on a Royal Navy ship before the Battle of Trafalgar. HMS Tightbore had been ordered to patrol the West African coast to intercept any French men ‘o war fleeing to the Cape. Many mariners have taken fright at the sight of big British guns shooting off in the heat of battle. After weeks of pleasant sailing in balmy tropical waters, the supply of alcoholic beverages was running low.
“The blasted crew will mutiny if we don’t find a port to re-stock!” exclaimed Captain Ignatius Porthole.
“The problem is easily solved, Iggy,” said Bo’sun Bananas. “All I need is a day’s shore leave to collect some ingredients from the Congo Coast. When these sea dogs have swigged my jungle punch they’ll forget they ever tasted rum or beer!”
Captain Porthole did as my noble forebear suggested, and five barrels of the finest jungle hooch were duly prepared. The crew lapped it up like cream on a harlot’s nipples, and performed their duties with greater diligence and efficiency than ever before. The impending mutiny having thus been averted, everything seemed to be shipshape. However shortly after putting out to sea, the captain accosted the bo’sun while he was reading Moll Flanders in the gun deck.
“Bananas, you hairy varmint, the crew have gone mad!” he thundered. “They’ve replaced the White Ensign with the first lieutenant’s britches and are watching it swing in the breeze, grinning like village idiots. I’ll be hanged if it’s not your damnable concoction that’s scrambled their wits!”
“Watch your language, little lady,” replied my venerable progenitor coolly. “The liquor I rustled up contains an extract from the Wanga plant, which sharpens perception and imagination as well as improving dexterity. If the crew want to fly the first lieutenant’s britches on the mast, it’s probably the best place for them.”
Captain Porthole stomped away grumbling and cursing, knowing better than to tangle with a gorilla. He was eventually persuaded to take some of the brew himself, which immediately calmed his turbulent disposition. He later relinquished command to the first officer so he could wander around barefoot on deck, singing sentimental ballads with his toenails painted red.
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